


anything for you

by Quilly



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Mutant Dirk, Other, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Totally legit and not at all hokey hacking skillz, Trollstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 20:25:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8415526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: In which Jaynne Crockr will do just about anything to protect her moirail Dirrkh Stridr, and luckily, she isn't the only one.





	

**Author's Note:**

> crossposting diddly-dee. This one was gleefully fun to write actually.

Your name is Jaynne Crockr and it’s conscription day.

You’ve been preparing for this day for a long time. Sweeps, really. Being an Heiress has never been a simple life, and you have always known that at adulthood, your choices were as slim as your chances of survival. If it wasn’t for your friends, you would be facing this day with much less confidence (and given what you’re about to try and pull off, that’s saying something).

But aside from your life, you have another reason to hope this launch goes off without a hitch, and his name is Dirrkh Stridr. If there’s one thing that’s more dangerous to be than an Heiress, it’s a mutant, and Dirrkh’s candy-orange blood is a target right under his skin. You’ve cared for him much longer than most anyone else, and have had al ot of time to consider how to protect him. Between you and your friend Rhoxie Lalond, a brilliantly gifted indigoblood with secrets of her own, you are confident in your plan. Having Jaikke Harley on board makes you feel even better.

The plan: get Dirrkh on board your own personal ship, then cruise the galaxy on your caste inheritance. You’ve been frugal with your caegars since wigglerhood, counting your beetles and amassing a beautiful little nest egg. Buying the ship barely made a dent. Supporting Dirrkh after his lusus died: cake. Securing Rhoxie and Jaikke’s positions as part of your crew: easy. Even buying a fake hemo-ID for Dirrkh was nothing. But caegars don’t sway drones, and you are a bundle of nerves. Every ship and crew member is required to submit to a drone-conducted inspection starting this sweep, including a blood verification test. You have a sinking feeling She knows exactly what you’re trying to pull.

Dirrkh, in the corner, is sharpening his odd flat-bladed sword with a whetstone, as always the very picture of calm. You envy him that, but the restless jiggling of his leg gives him away. In the other corner of your block, Rhoxie taps away at her husktop, sipping out of a bottle of Faygo as she works on some ~ATH gibberish. Jaikke is posted at the window, elbows on the sill, keeping a casual eye out for the drones. It’s early yet, the suns having set only a few hours ago, but you’ve been in full panic mode for nights now and are ready.

A warm hand on your wrist startles you, but it’s just Dirrkh, who moved too silently again. In front of the others it’s as expressive as he gets, the pads of his fingers soothing across the inside of your wrist before letting go. It’s very nearly a pap, and your earfins flutter before you can stop them. Rhoxie grins hugely at her husktop and winks when you glance at her. Dirrkh’s mouth has the smallest of upward ticks. You smile back but don’t relax.

“They should’ve been here by now,” you say. “I don’t like this.”

“They’ll get here when they get here,” Jaikke says cheerfully, though you can see him fingering his belt like he’s ready to draw his pistols from his sylladex at any moment.

“The more time they give me the better,” Rhoxie says from the desk. Dirrkh stands a little closer to you, close enough that you can feel the invisible quiver of his muscles. His heat is incredible, almost burning against your ocean-cold skin. “Got a few bugs to work out in this virus.”

“This isn’t going to work,” Dirrkh deadpans, and you elbow him. “What? I’m being motivational.”

“Don’t need the help,” Rhoxie snaps.

“Movement in the east,” Jaikke announces, and his pistols flicker into his hands. “Looks like a transport.”

Your gut heaves. It must show on your face, because Dirrkh grasps your hand. Or maybe he needs it for his own nerves. This could go very badly for you all. One wrong move…

“Don’t panic,” Rhoxie says, “but I think I’ve got it.”

You nod, too queasy to open your mouth. It’s one thing to contemplate and discuss treason. It’s another thing entirely to _do_ it. Dirrkh’s fingers tighten around yours.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your hair, just for you to hear. You appreciate the increase in physical affection as your nerves twang along to your blood-pusher. “I just. Thanks.” You nuzzle his cheek in response, to which he emits a very low chirring purr.

“Definitely a drone transport,” Jaikke says. “About two miles off, gaining fast.”

“Pale for you,” you whisper to Dirrkh. He presses his forehead to the top of your head, your horns almost brushing.

“Turning up all diamonds here, too,” he says, which makes you smile. “It’s actually gonna be okay. Full serious belief.”

You squeeze his hand, then let go. You’re the Heiress, the Captain, and it’s your responsibility to greet the drones. You had Rhoxie dress you today, and you have to say, you’ve never looked so sleek and intimidating. As a cursory coming-of-age gift, Her Imperious Condescension sent you set of bangles, most of which you disregarded as tacky, but you kept the horn rings and one elaborate necklace. You’re wearing them now along with high-waisted black pants, boots, and a blouse threaded through with your blood color, along with an almost nautical coat (you are a ship captain now, after all). You school your features into haughty ennui, and wait by your ship parked outside. It’s small, but you’re planning on trading up later on. If you make it through this, of course.

The drone transport is standard-issue chrome-plated steel, flashy and deadly. You note the two turret guns and the reinforced underbelly of the ship. On board there should be an AI making pre-programmed stops, fourteen drone pairs, a mechanic bot, and a helmsman long braindead from years of service, the only organic being onboard. The transport lands several yards from your above-ground hive, flattening much of the careful landscaping you’ve poured sweeps into maintaining. You push the hurt away. You’re not going to be planetside by morning if you can help it.

A hatch in the transport opens, and a pair of drones exit, gliding on hover-tech towards you. They’re newer models than the old lumbering drones, their design given over to speed rather than strength. You knew this; Rhoxie stole blueprints of the new drone plans perigees ago. Their plating is far more seamless than old drones, as well, but they do have one flaw, one you plan to exploit.

“Designation Jaynne Crockr,” the drones buzz in unison. “Hemocaste: fuchsia. Conscription request: independent captain of merchant-class space transport, designation Unnamed. Conscription request: approved.” You hold in your sigh of relief. You can’t afford to relax. “Present yourself for verification.”

You take several steps forward, then offer your right hand, wrist up. A panel slides back from the left drone’s chest, and a tiny needle emerges. With clinical efficiency the needle pricks a vein, collects a small quantity of your tyrian blood, and folds back. The other end of the apparatus swipes a medical adhesive across the prick mark, and you return your hands to your sides. The needle retreats back into the drone’s chest, and after a long minute the drone dings like the most cheerful of baking timers.

“Identity confirmed,” the drones buzz. “Good evening, Captain Crockr. Present your crew for verification.”

You look to the window, and Jaikke nods. Within moments your friends are by your side, standing at strict attention according to hemocaste. Dirrkh is last in line, sword presumably in his sylladex. Rhoxie next to you has a face like a meowbeast with an entire tub full of thickened dairy product.

“Crew roster request,” the drones say. “Designation: Rhoxie Lalond. Hemocaste: purple. Conscription request: first mate of merchant-class space transport, designation Unnamed. Conscription request: approved. Present yourself for verification.”

Rhoxie confidently thrusts her wrist at the drones, and this time the right drone does the pricking. The needle brushes Rhoxie’s charm bracelet as it collects its sample, and after the drones ding and pronounce Rhoxie fit for duty, she glances at you and smirks.

“Designation: Jaikke Harley,” the drones move on. “Hemocaste: olive. Conscription request: crew member of merchant-class space transport, designation Unnamed. Conscription request: approved. Present yourself for verification.”

You notice Jake is also wearing a metal and leather bracelet, one he’s never worn before, but don’t linger on it. The left drone takes care of him, dings, and moves down the line.

“Designation: Dirrkh Stridr,” the drones say, and your blood-pusher roars in your ears. “Hemocaste: brown. Conscription request: crew member of merchant-class space transport, designation Unnamed. Conscription request: denied.”

Your gut bottoms out. Dirrkh doesn’t even move, doesn’t quirk an eyebrow or anything. Jaikke’s mouth tightens. Rhoxie fiddles with one of her charms.

“Conscription assignment: warship Cavalry for foot soldier training, reassignment pending,” the drones say, and Rhoxie fiddles more earnestly. Jaikke touches his bracelet but does nothing more. “Relocate to airfield Blood Gulch for testing and verification.”

“Understood,” Dirrkh says, and you are impressed at how smooth his voice is. Rhoxie rips a charm from her bracelet and bites down hard. There’s a muffled pop, and the voice recorders in the drones start running backwards, you think over everything they just said. You hold your breath.

“Designation: Dirrkh Stridr,” the drones say again. “Hemocaste: brown. Conscription request: crew member of merchant-class space transport, designation Unnamed. Conscription request—” They begin to stutter, clearly over “denied”, but Rhoxie spits out the charm, takes up another, and slashes at her wrist with her teeth. As it bleeds, she soaks the charm in it, and the voice recorders hover between “denied” and “approved”.

“Blast it all,” Jaikke mutters, his pistols flickering into being again, but you hold him off with the coldest look of your life. If he starts a fight and endangers Dirrkh, you’ll never forgive him, and he seems to realize this as he grimaces and puts the pistols away again.

“C-conscrip—conscription request: app-approved,” the drones stutter, and you breathe. “P-p-present your—present yourself for v-v-v-verification.” They spark slightly as they do, and Rhoxie licks her wound and holds her sleeve to it, smirking again. Her charm bracelet smokes a bit. Dirrkh presents his wrist, and as the needle from the left drone inches towards him, you hold your breath.

Halfway to his wrist, it fizzles, then a much louder pop resonates through the left drone’s chest cavity. The needle retracts.

“Identity confirmed,” the drones buzz. “G-good evening, Crewman Stridr.”

You smell something else burning and look to see Jaikke wincing. His bracelet seems to be red-hot and burning at the leather of the cuff it’s padded around.

“Merchant-class space transport, designation Unnamed, approved for service to Her Imperious Condescension,” the drones monotone. The right one seems to be sparking. “Good evening, Captain Crockr.”

You make a low bow, and the drones, slightly out of sync, return to their transport. The drone ship immediately whirrs on to its next destination, and you release the breath you’ve been holding. Jaikke whoops and Rhoxie laughs, and Dirrkh makes for you, catching you as your knees give out.

“We did it,” you say weakly.

“We half did it,” Rhoxie says. “We need to get up to space and ditch the imperial tracers embedded in this baby before the diagnostic report comes back for those drones.”

“They’re gonna know,” Dirrkh says as the four of you hustle for your hive, grabbing everything you intend to bring with you for a life on the run in space. “Rhoxie, whatever you did, they’re gonna—”

“They’re gonna know that the drones caught a virus,” Rhoxie says, hefting her duffle bag onto her shoulder. “Thanks to some magnetic interference and some sweet, sweet ~ATH action, it’ll take them weeks to sort out how.” She jangles her charm bracelet at him, beaming. For added emphasis Jaikke presents his own bangle, grinning broadly. Dirrkh seems unable to speak for a moment.

“You guys,” he says, sounding oddly choked.

“Save the waterworks for when we’re in the air,” Rhoxie says, and you smile, exhilaration flooding your body and overcoming the adrenaline. The rest of the plan—getting to space, ditching the ship, finding another one, living life as dashing and charming vagabonds—that’s on you to keep afloat, you and the anonymous cash account linked to a fake profile of some seadweller you personally killed for exactly this purpose. Heiresses are supposed to kill each other, after all. It’s in the genetic code.

As Jaikke and Rhoxie take the pilot seats and you and Dirrkh settle into the passenger seats, Dirrkh reaches across the aisle and grasps your hand, pulling it up to his mouth to gently kiss your knuckles.

“Pale for you, too,” he whispers into your skin, and you smile, squeezing his fingers.

It is going to be a long night and a long life, exhausting and full of sleepless days and evading the law, but space is infinite, and Her Imperial Condescension’s reach is not endless.

You’re looking forward to the trip.


End file.
